


Safety In Darkness

by Kitty_Grell_Laufeyson



Series: The Tale Of The Half-Blood And The Possessed [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Blood Magic (Dragon Age), Blood and Gore, Cult, Dark Magic, Demon Summoning, Demons, Dorian Is Not Okay, Drug Abuse, F/F, F/M, Halward Is An Asshole, M/M, Multi, OCs - Freeform, OOC, Suicide Attempt, Trauma, What if this happened
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-08
Updated: 2019-04-08
Packaged: 2020-01-06 15:58:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18391646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kitty_Grell_Laufeyson/pseuds/Kitty_Grell_Laufeyson
Summary: They would find him eventually, and then what? Continue?No. He'd rather die.





	Safety In Darkness

**Author's Note:**

> This is a chapter of a fan fiction I will soon be posting once I get everything proofread. It was written before I started putting the story together itself. 
> 
> I do not own Dragon Age, neither the books nor the games. If I did, Dorian would be romanced with my female Lavellan and Cullen my male Adaar. *sighs*

He had never run so hard and fast in his life. Not when he faced a surprised ambush from the Qunari, and certainly not when he had been caught sleeping with the First Enchanter's son. Even the underground network of darkspawn discovered on a supposed educational trip in his apprentice years hadn’t awaken the fear and horror that raced up his spine at current.

 

His chest hurt. His heart _hurt_. The lacerations that covered his arms and legs burned with each set. Blood kept running into his eyes from the five-point pentagon engraved into his skin, mingling with the sweat and tears that stung his eyes and compromised his vision, smearing the Kohl there, giving him the appearance of a raccoon. His left arm in particular was tingling from the after effects of an interrupted blood ritual.

 

When he had first heard it, he didn't want to believe it. Maybe they were just words of passionate anger, as he was so prone to invoke from the man. Besides, his father would never do such a thing. Not to his own child, his only heir. The risks were too high, and he was their only son.

 

Just imagine his surprise to finding himself in the midst of a summoning circled made of blood after drinking a glass of spiked wine.

 

Dorian couldn't understand. He agreed to bend to the will of the Tevene vision, to swallow his disgust and bare it with a grin. To marry and touch a woman, has touched said woman, in order to bring an offspring with the magical prowess strong enough to give the Pavus the credit and fame it rightly deserved. He'd done everything to please his father, so why...

 

Dorian turned down a hall in the mysterious building, slamming hard into the wall with a pained cry. He kept going, ascending up the waiting stairs, two flights of them, and then running into the first room that was available, slamming the door shut and locking it. Like a child, he hid behind an armoire and cried, a litany of 'why' falling from his bloodied lips with each sniffle and shake of his body.

 

Shouts and words of anger made themselves know, and Dorian jumped up and placed the strongest barrier spell he knew on the door. They would find him eventually, and then what? Continue?

 

No. He’d rather die.

 

Dorian turned to a nearby dresser and yanked out the drawers, searching them frantically. Personal items, pretty lacy underthings. As a Tevinter he knew there had to be one somewhere. They all kept one in the...

 

There it was. A dagger designs intricately engraved in the silverite metal that shone even with no light available. Dorian, mystified, casted a magelight, and the dagger sparkled beautifully in the pale purple lighting. A dangerous reliever, his silver salvation. If his father wanted a blood ritual, then he would _give him one_. The Pavus bloodline would end with him.

 

On the wall connected to the dresser was a large mirror. In it, he saw a man he didn't know. Messy hair, torn clothes, covered with cuts and markings from the forbidden rite. His face was a mess. Overall, he was filthy. This was a broken man, not a human who deserved the luxurious of a Tevinter royalty. A common beggar would look better to carry the Altus title than he.

 

For a moment, he wanted to break the mirror. Snuff out the light, plunge himself in darkness. But then, he reasoned, he would be embracing darkness soon. Let him get one final look at the has-been crying silently at him in the reflection.

 

The dagger was lifted to his neck, gleaming wickedly in the magelight, and pressed to his throat. Dead eyes watched the image before him bleed as he pressed, a small drop of blood turning into a small stream. The pain was different than the mental one. More real. It felt good, relieving. The knowledge of dying to such a sweet release, to kick his father in the balls one last time, made his aching heart tremble with dark joy. And as the blade bit more into his skin--

 

Another gleam reflected through the mirror. The gold ring around his pinky, smarted and tinged with wear and tear even though he polished it religiously, winking accusingly at him. It hummed with the power of the Fade, a presence there gifted to him in a dream, after one of his darker nightmares. _She_ has given it to him.

 

And now another option presented itself to him, one that sent fresh wave of tears down his cheeks, that stilled his hand from pulling the fine blade across his neck even as his grip tightened on the halla leather handle. He wanted it to end, Maker he did so bad that it hurt. But the temptation...

 

With a muffled shout he punched the mirror, dagger in hand. The fragile glass shattered, bloodying his knuckles with its sharp edges, pieces crashing down on the expensive wooden surface of the dresser like tiny toll bells. The noise was sure to draw attention, but he didn't care. He turned away and fell to his knees, hunched over with the dagger held close to his chest, trying to hold in the sob that bucked and writhed angrily his chest like a druffalo gone mad. He turned the ring on his finger one, two, three times.

 

The room was suffused in a pale green glow. At the same time, the knob of the room door started to rattle. He had been found.

 

Still, he did not pay it any mind. A rift opened up in the center of the room. A wraith-like figure emerged from it, wispy around the edges, yet easily it could be distinguished as a woman by the shapely figure. Wild hair adorned her head. Alien eyes, slanted and large and a brighter green than the rest of her body, stared down imperiously at him. Her clothes were that of a shredded gown that gave her an air of regality, seduction and frightening power.

 

Such was the presence of a demon like her.

 

As her form finally solidified into the real world, her eyes widened slightly, thick brows rising in question. **"My Peacock,"** she cooed in that hypnotic, distorted voice of hers that echoed. **"Why do you bleed?"**

 

Dorian hung his head and simply shook. Now that she was here, words had fled him.

 

Leisurely, she sashayed her way towards him. With delicate, wispy hands that ended with long, manicured nails every woman in Tevinter would envy, she smoothed over his cheeks, smearing blood and tears and sweat. She tilted his head upwards. When their eyes met again, she cooed a second time. He was staring up at her like a lost child.

 

 **"Talk to me, Peacock,"** she coaxed, using her thumbs to rub slow, soothing circles just below his cheekbones. The Kohl that had ran down there smeared even more. **"Who has harmed my Avian Prince?"**

 

There was a lump in his throat, yet Dorian tried to preform the task of speech that his mind, as brilliant as it was, failed to comprehend. "I tried," he croaked, and would have been appalled at the wrecked noise he produced if he cared. "I t-tried. I can't..."

 

 **"Shh,"** she hissed gently. **"Let me see..."** Her long fingers trailed up to his temples, and magic glared to life.

 

It hurt, having to relive the events again. They were still at the forefront of his mind. No sane being would allow a demon access to their mind, but he had since she had already been there several times before. The memories were replayed, and it only broke him further to have to go through it all again.

 

By the time she retreated he was whimpering. She pulled him into her arms, and he was once more a sobbing mess.

 

In the background the door was rattling furiously. They were breaking down his barrier, and he could feel it. The realization slapped a whole new layer of terror in him.

 

 **"What shall I do?"** She asked him. Dorian looked up at her, confusion in his wide, amber eyes. Still, she watched him expectantly, those alien eyes that were too green. Too light.

 

"I..." He froze, at a loss.

 

 **"Dorian,"** she said, lifting his head further by his chin. **"Until you free me, as we agreed, I am at your beck and call. Whatever you desire I can make happen. If you have enemies, if you have mortals you want gone, it will be nothing for me to eradicate them, to dispose of them in a thousand different ways, all from which you can choose from."** Her hand trailed up his cheek, wiping his tears and smearing the mess of grime on his tanned skin. Only more tears fell. **"I have told you before; let me help you."**

 

_Let me kill. Let me pull you deeper into my grasps. Let me become the powerful demon force you will unleash unto the world. Let me devour your soul._

 

At this point, Dorian didn't care. She had been in his life, riding the edge of his conscious and piggybacking on his pinky finger for six months now. Right now, she was the only thing in the world that seemed to care, and he was hurting. All he wanted was for those who caused his pain to go away.

 

"All of them," he stammered, resigned. The mage's eyes now flickered with anger and hate, an eerie gold under her Fade green light. "Make them suffer. I don't care how."

 

She smiled sweetly at him, but anyone who could tell evil could see the anger and dark intent shown by those teeth, suddenly too sharp. By the bloodlust that suddenly bloomed in those too alien eyes. **"Is that what you want?"**

 

"With all my heart, my Queen."

 

**"Then you shall have your vengeance, my Prince."**

 

Her lips fell onto his marked forehead, cool and foreign, but pleasant. It tingled, her magic slipping in and healing the marking there until his skin was once again smooth, the only evidence there was the blood that remained. His face was then nudged into her ghostly bosom, and he accepted the comfort all too willing.

 

For this act to seem so wrong, it felt too right, seeking safety in darkness.

 

The door blew into splinters. The demoness winked from in front of him and appeared behind him. He was stupidly shocked by the action, even though he knew it was not the first time she had done so before him. She loomed above him, swelling in size over his kneeling figure as chaotic magic filled the air, tossing furniture and items alike around the room. The mages before him looked terrified. His father appeared shook, fear and guilt plain to see on his face.

 

Good. ’ _Let him see what he has pushed his son to do_.’ He thought.

 

Their howls of terror were music to his ears. Blood and gore and limbs were torn, ripped, painting the walls and doors and overturned furniture. Screams sung soundly as nightmares were planted, driving them crazy, making them take their own lives. Dorian felt himself grinning widely, which must have made him look like a madman under the setting with his visage. He felt drunk, the finest wine being the power and death he had brought down upon them. The show of raw magic from the Fade itself, being wielded by this goddess of anger before him, was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen in his awed eyes. If his father had chosen her to be his bride, he wouldn't have complained at all.

 

Soon, Halward Pavus was the last mage left. He was trying in vain to stop the enraged demoness from advancing on him but was not successful. Had he been a spiritual mage like his mother, Dorian mused, he may have fared better.

 

A large green cloud of magic surrounded the patriarch's head. The man fought her for a moment, but he couldn't battle for too long. The lack of air the cloud deprived him of won over, and he was choking as he fell to his knees. The demoness hovered over him, hands raised, and sharp nails presented like claws, her sharp teeth bloodied from one of the bodies she had savagely bit into. She had promised him plenty of ways to kill them, and she had provided. The man's head lied behind him against the dresser, a victim of the animalistic act.

 

Dorian watched with strange fascination. Halward's face was turning colors. The kohl that had lined his bulging red eyes were beginning to smudge as tears fell down his cheeks. He looked to Dorian with pain and the still present disbelief that his son had done this. A new light had been casted upon him, as if he was seeing him for the first time.

 

He hated and loved that look.

 

"Stop," he said.

 

The demoness looked to him, annoyance flashing in her bloodthirsty eyes. **"Why?"** She hissed.

 

"I said stop." Dorian walked over, still messy and covered in blood and tears, but his eyes were glassy and wicked looking. He stared his father in his cloudy eyes. "I want him to live. I want him to remember me like this."

 

As skeptical as the demoness looked, she hummed lightly in interest. **"Is this what you want, my Peacock?"**

 

"Yes, my Queen," he replied dutifully.

 

She nodded and looked to Halward. **"As my Avian Prince commands."**

 

Halward's eyes rolled upwards, and Dorian watched as the cloud dispersed, the now unconscious man falling sideways. The demoness turned to him, waiting for an order. Waiting for more death. But no more killing was to be had, not yet. Dorian wordlessly signaled for her to follow, leaving behind the mess of bodies for the Templars to find, with the lone survivor in the center of the mess. The Magistrate would be like a buzzing beehive when they discovered this.

 

His first destination was home. At this time of night his mother would be sleeping, most likely with a bottle of her finest wine at her fingertips. The slaves who were awake were silenced with fear at the sight of their young master's state, too afraid to go against his word of secrecy. Too afraid, he figured, of the demon that trailed him.

 

He packed some clothes, an extra staff, and other necessities he would need. And money. A lot of money. He then wrote a letter to several members power in the group he created, The Phoenix Order, of a time and place, as well as a decision they had to make. He sent slaves on their way and ran into his personal guards and his tutor. Lorrik, the righteous half-breed, was furious and frightened over his state of being and at the sight of the demon. Lyles, Islanzaldi and Winnalasse, were not far behind. But they didn't attack. Dorian introduced her to them briefly as the Queen Oracle, then told them to pack up their essentials. They obeyed, their questions waved off and distrust of the wraith evident.

 

His final destination was near the docks. There was a building there, inconspicuous and unused by anyone. It was where he and The Phoenix Order members who decided to stay with him would meet and wait until the boat to Fereldan came for the next week. The man was frantic with ideas, murmuring to himself as he walked and gesticulated in a wildness that confused his guard. And yet he still denied them answers to their questions.

 

Evidently, he locked himself in a room with bottle of wine that he had brought with him. Dorian drunk himself into a stupor, the events of the night crashing down on him hard and sending him into a deep depression. The self-loathing was merciless, but the demoness didn't stop him, and he was grateful for it.

 

When he finally got blackout drunk and passed out from intoxication, the exasperated spirit sighed and ran a hand through his mess of bloody hair. She healed him of his wounds and the severe alcohol poisoning he had acquired. Afterwards, she kissed his forehead softly.

 

 **"Such a sad mortal, you are,"** she said, her eyes lowered and raking over his unconscious form. Like an unruly pet, one that needed a firm hand and sure guidance. And she would provide that to him, so long as he kept their bargain. Now, she had no doubt that he would.

 

Her form winked out of existence. The golden ring on his pinky hummed.


End file.
